God of the Sea: The 65th Hunger Games
by Felicity Hartington
Summary: Finnick's Games were perhaps one of the most memorable in Panem History. This is before he became the boy loved by all, the man who stole the heart of every single woman in the Capitol, and before he met his noble death while fighting for the righteous cause of the Capitol's Fall. This is the story of Finnick: The young fisherman who became a tribute who became a hero.
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter I: It's Rigged **_

Finnick's glistening green eyes gazed deeply into the depthless waters below, and then, sensing the slightest movement of a fish's tail, he shoved the graphite-stone tip of the wooden spear into the pit of a sun bellied bass. His shirt had been cast off into the ship's stomach and all that remained was a pair of ripped shorts that allowed him to move freely, without the restriction of a clinging fabric. His strong abdomen and biceps glistened with sweat and sea water, while his bronze locks, slightly stained gold from long days in the sun's rays, were ruffled and matted against his forehead.

He pulled the flapping fish from the spear, throwing the weapon down and snapping the fish's spine easily. He threw it into the bucket and raised his spear once more to catch another fish, but his eyes caught sight of something not far off in the distance. A small flash of silver. He smiled and began to row softly, but quickly, his rows barely touching the water's surface, yet still propelling it forward easily. He found himself just above the coral reef, a small inlet for the tropical fish of the sea. He ran a hand through his hair, looked to the sky, the sun was perched high above him. Like a king that sat over his kingdom, the sun cast its harsh rays across the sea's surface. It was nearly time for him to head home and prepare for the reaping, but he wasn't ready… He didn't think he ever would be.

"Better to swim than starve," he said quietly to himself, before he stepped off the edge of the boat and dove into the ocean. The water reached out to him like some old companion, it moved him like a fish within its gentle currents. Finnick's bright green eyes opened, fighting the slight burning sensation of the salt, as he gazed upon the silver fish that seemed to dance in the warm waters of the reefs. It was a completely different world with the bright and magical colors. The pinks were magnified by ten, seemingly shining like diamonds and the yellows were fluorescent like a mixture of the sun's gold and moon's silver. Fish of all different kinds darted beneath his feet and around his arms. A mother bottlenose dolphin and her two young calves followed in her wake, she turned to Finnick offering a friendly squeak before grabbing a mouthful of fish and darting away. The young boy smiled at the sight of all the life, his heart filling with a slight sadness. He could possibly be leaving all this, his sea friends and the life of the ocean.

He burst to the surface and let air flow back into the lungs. He snapped the spines of the silver fish that were so fat and filled with meat. He threw them into the bucket in his small rowboat, before diving back under and grabbing a few clams which sat on a ledge of pink, porous coral. Finnick pushed off from the ledge and broke through the watery layer of the sea and into the bright world of the living. He preferred the ocean better. He grabbed the side of his boat and slid nimbly back into it, hardly causing the thing to rock. It was natural for Finnick to go leaping off and onto to boats this way, when he wasn't off in the sea by himself, like he was today, he would be on one of the industrial fishing boats that went out into the ocean.

It was those large and hulking boats that he was thrown onto from the time he was barely a year old to now, when he was just beginning to realize the full capability of himself. Finnick had learned to tie knots so artfully he was considered the best out of all the men he fished with, and his swimming skills were unparalleled by all, it was almost as if he was a sea god. His crew, often speaking of him affectionately, had given him the nickname, Fish, simply because since the time he could walk, his father had plunged him into the waves and forced him to teach himself to swim. Of course, whenever Finnick questioned if Galen, his father, would have allowed him to drown, Galen would chuckle and say some things were meant to be kept a secret.

Thinking of this now, Finnick realized just how many times Galen would say that to him. It was actually quite frightening the repetition he would ask his father things, Galen only responding with a monotone and bored voice that the answer he sought, he would probably learn in school. It made him think back to the conversation he had had weeks ago with his father, shortly before his fourteenth birthday.

The conversation had occurred on a day, one of the rare occasions, when Galen would accompany Finnick out into the bay and sit quietly while his son would dive beautifully into the blue waters, snatching fish and sea kelp off of nearby ledges. While they snacked on fresh shellfish the young boy had just caught moments ago, he was telling his father about his rather uneventful day at school.

"I just don't see the point, Dad, why do I have to go to school? I mean it's not like I'm going to use it or anything. He tossed the empty shell of an oyster back into the sea, figuring some animal would find use of it, as he sucked up the succulent and thick meat into his mouth.

Galen simply chuckled, his graying bronze hair being blown slightly in the salty sea breeze. "Then pull out of it, boy, you don't need to be askin' me if you can. It's the witch of your mother who'd have your rear."

He was right about that. Finnick's mother was a very edgy and jumpy woman, and if she found out that her youngest son had dropped out of school, she would have killed him with a fish gutting knife. He'd often seen her chase his older brother, Stark, around the house with the long and sharp monstrosity. It usually made him laugh and call encouragement to his brother, but then, May Odair would turn the knife on him, and chase after both of them.

"All they ever do is talk about the Games, anyway…" Finnick knew he shouldn't have said anything, but he couldn't help it. It was the daily propaganda of his life, on the boats the Games would be talked about while pulling in nets, at training, at school, and even at home, between his parents. He was tired of hearing about them, wishing that he could block out the conversation of all of it. The Hunger Games, the Treaty of Treason, and the Rebellion… They were usually thrown together all in the same sentence, sometime or another. It made him sick to his stomach just hearing about them.

Galen stared at him for a long time, his bright green eyes, much like Finnick's own, seemed to stare into him with a hard gaze. "For a boy who don't like the Games, you sure do got a lot to say about em'." His father was regarding him with a cool gaze that could have frozen fire. It had been his father's dream for his sons to be reaped, one of them to bring home the family's gold. Neither Stark nor Finnick had been reaped, and it wasn't Finnick's intention to be chosen.

"Dad… I… It's just… Doesn't it seem wrong to you…? You know, children dying horrible and twisted deaths?" Galen had always been a diehard believer of the Hunger Games, even if the rest of his family wasn't. Finnick's grandfather had been a Victor of the 4th Games. It was in his bloodline, practically. Galen's father had filled the young man's head with glorious praise of them, stating they were the best thing introduced into Panem, even if the other districts couldn't see it.

"Finnick, it's for the districts' damn self-righteousness we be payin' for the things we done. There ain't nothin' the Capitol has done to hurt any of us, but to try and be reformin' us. It ain't easy when the entire nation of Panem wants you destroyed." His voice had an air in it that if Finnick dared prod any further, he would pay for it severely.

"But… Dad, why do they let it happen?" Galen grabbed up a fish that was swimming by with his bare hand, that was how his father taught him how to do it, catch with your fingertips, and they can never get away. "I mean… They're…"

"Some things, boy, are best kept to themselves." And that was it. Finnick recognized this automatically as the queue to be quiet. He sighed and sat down into the bottom of the boat and rowed effortlessly back to shore where his mother was waiting.

It was how it always went when he questioned his father, or any member of his paternal family, about the Games. They always would praise it and give him a glare if he even tried to put blame against it. His grandfather long dead, now, had slapped Finnick on the back of the head once for even thinking to insult the tradition of the Games. His mother and Stark were always too afraid to say anything to Galen about it, even if they both believed the Games were wrong.

The splash of a fish awoke Finnick from his reverie. He realized the fish was a red-spotted saber, very rare, and _very _good when cooked over fire. He picked up the golden trident that rest at his feet, a smile working its way onto his face. "Gotcha, little one." Finnick quietly stated as he stabbed through the fat, thick meat of the red body, which thrashed around on the end of the golden points of the trident. He pulled the fish off of the points with a tug, and threw it into the white bucket with his other assortment of fish and sea creatures.

Once Finnick had collected his weapons and organized them as he liked, he picked up his oars and set to rowing swiftly across the blue bay. At fourteen, he was already stronger than half the men on his shipping crew. He was tall and appeared to already be growing taller, as his mother was constantly telling him-"If you grow any taller, you're going to break through _my_ ceiling!"-and Stark was _always _agreeing with her. He could picture Stark now, standing behind May while she told Finnick to stop growing. His smug grin and his gleaming green eyes twinkling like stars within them, making faces at him behind their mother's short and petite frame. It made Finnick laugh, despite his brother's antics; Stark always kept everyone in the family smiling.

By the time Finnick reached the docks near the small bait shop, which were surrounded by the colossal marble palaces of richer citizens of 4; it was nearly noon, telling by the sun's highest peak over the ocean, its golden rays casting powerfully over the massive marble aqueducts that bordered the district's boundary lines. The idea had been proposed when the new district had been built, the Capitol had nearly destroyed everything in the Rebellion, and it seemed like the perfect idea. Aqueducts were old and ancient designs dating back to thousands of years to the Romans, a barbaric group of people who had seemingly shaped the face of humanity, they built the aqueducts to transport clean and fresh water to the bath houses, villas, and local shops. They were the world's first inventors, making magnificent things seemingly out of nothing. The function and shape of the aqueducts was kept, but their design had certainly changed. Now they could transport 900 gallons of water, from the ocean, purified and fresh from the sea, in less than a minute. It was impressive and made jobs for almost a fourth of 4's population.

Finnick grabbed the edge of the steel dock, pulling himself onto the hard surface, and then bending over to tie his boat to the post. The tiny rowboat looked almost sad at its owner's disappearance. He reached out and with a grunt of effort, grabbed both of the full white buckets that must have weighed slightly over fifty pounds and began walking up the steel platform to the bait shop. Finnick knew old Sardine would have a good deal for him. He looked up to the towering marble Justice Building that shadowed over the bait shop, making it look small and insignificant. From this angle, he could see already people were meandering towards the square, where the Justice Building resided. He knew he would have to hurry, Sardine would be closing up shop soon enough. After all, the reaping was a big deal to many of 4's civilians.

Every year, there were flamboyant and bright parties on the night before reaping day. Children's names, younger than Finnick, even, would be placed in the betting chambers. Betting chambers were usually held in the basements of the vast marble palaces that surrounded the borders of the district. The rich, adoring their Hunger Games, would allow for the betting and live broadcast of the Games to go live on their large holographic screens. Men would scream names at random, and every year, most of them would be wrong. It would only appear once on a blue moon, that the men would actually be right about a name being pulled for the reaping. They usually betted on some of the wealthier children of District 4 like Finnick's family. The Odairs had gotten off well; the winnings of every dead victor went to the descendants of him or her. That's why Finnick and Stark were constantly having bets placed onto them, and it happened _every _year.

When Finnick reached the bait shop doors, the sensory glass slid open at his proximity, and the young boy stepped through. The scent of fresh fish guts and salt entered Finnick's nostrils. He smiled as he heard old Sardine yelling at his wife, probably just as old as he was, about how he couldn't stand the goddamn smell of her perfume and why did she has to be so scrutinizin' of him and that if he ever had the chance to send to her to one them mad houses he would. "And if you ever try to escape, I'll get that goddamn trident out and cook you myself!" Sardine was still screaming at her, when Finnick laughed and called to him.

Sardine came out from the sheeted door and smiled at Finnick with a smile. "Aye, Odair, got somethin' good for me?" He looked greedily into the pales Finnick held up; the old man usually relied on Finnick to bring in the best sea food. This was the usual routine: Finnick bringing Sardine fresh fish, Sardine giving less than what the buckets were actually worth, and the old man sharing the latest gossip with the young boy, while he sorted through the buckets. It wasn't the money that actually mattered to Finnick, but he did enjoy Sardine's comments about the Capitol. The old man had a way of humoring him, and he couldn't help but laugh.

At Finnick's discretion that a few of the crabs hadn't been killed yet, Sardine began to pick through the buckets of fish, clams, and other various sea creatures. "So, _Mr_. Odair, you hear about the bid they be placin' on your brother's pretty head for this year's reapin'?" He asked with a tobacco stained smirk, his mouth being nearly toothless from a lifetime of smoking.

Finnick had heard, yes, but he hadn't truly paid much attention to it. There was always an Odair thrown into the mix for reaping, whether that be one of his cousins or himself. "Actually, Sardine, I did. But I think it's pointless to keep trying to keep placing bets on us, Grandpa was a Victor, they're not going to throw one of us back into the arena. It'd be rigged."

"Well, that's just what the boys down at the docks been sayin', lad. They'd throw one of you back into the arena if they could play with ya', a bit, seein' as your old man was a Victor." Sardine picked up the sun bellied bass, eyeing it with a satisfied smile and tossed it into the sink nearby. It was true, what old Sardine said. They had thrown tributes who had been children of Victors; supposedly it was entertaining to many Capitol citizens. It had even happened in 4, once or twice.

"What do you mean play with us?" Finnick inquired, leaning on the glass counter, feeling the cold air rising up to meet him.

"They want a good show, Finnick, my boy, it's all them Gamemakers want. Your grandpappy's Games were a show to be remembered, if they can throw one of you Odairs into that arena and have a little fun down memory lane, they'll have one happy crowd on their greasy little hands." Finnick didn't think his grandfather's Games should be renowned, like Sardine was suggesting. They were dirty and bloody, and there was nothing much else to say about them. Finnick's father wasn't born yet and the earlier Games were gory and usually lasted only days, because of the Gamemakers resentment towards the tributes.

"Maybe, old man, but the name Odair has been known too long… They don't want to have another Victor with my last name." Finnick said with a pensive expression on his face.

"How do you know, lad, that if Stark was reaped he'd be Victor?" It was a frightening thought to pass over Finnick; therefore, he didn't let it go any further than that.

"Stark's not going to be chosen, old man. Keep the goods for free, Sardine. I don't need it." He said with a wry smile, as he waved to him.

"Yessir, you best be gettin' home, Finnick. It's nearly reapin' time."

**A/N: Hi, everyone! I'm going to need tributes for Finnick's Games, they will all die… :'( But I still want them! I'm leaving the Career slots open so, please, please, make me some vicious and psychotic killers! :) I have Finnick's district partner already picked out and thought up, so I don't need that… But 1-2 still need tributes, I will choose your tributes before the Games actually start! Thanks so much, everyone! **

**Don't forget to review, favorite, or follow! :) Thanks so much! Love, Fel Hartington **


	2. The Reaping of A Champion

_**Chapter II: The Reaping of a Champion**_

District 4 was once known as the providence, Los Angeles, back when the ancestors of North America still walked the Earth. The southern end of the flooded land mass jutted out into the wide and open blue waters of the ocean. It created a finger-like effect as the long and slanted island reached out to connect with the smaller peninsulas, leaving a small lake-sized gap between each branch of the district. If it was seen from an aerial view, one would see that the older limestone villas, the ones that remained from the time of the Dark Days, were clustered elegantly together. Past those were the city buildings like the Justice Building, the tailor, the fishery, Sardine's bait shop, and the mayor's home. Mayor Banks' home was a large marble mansion that stuck out crudely into the swept cobblestone streets, despite the building's beautiful design; it didn't fit on the busy city street. Farther down the long stretch of land were the fish shacks, as they were called, these belonged to the poor fishermen families who made their living off fishing from the stainless steel docks, which were cluttered with countless boats of all different varieties.

Finnick's home belonged on the very tip of the peninsula, where the Oldies resided, these were the names given to the wealthy and ancient families of the district. Some of the mansions were older than before the Dark Days; Finnick's neighbor had made her home strictly from an Oldie's shack, expanding and expanding on it, until it became an immensely beautiful limestone palace. As for Finnick's own mansion, it was made from the original foundation of his grandfather's Victor house, but after the Victors' village was moved, the house was expanded and modernized.

It was too big, for Finnick's liking. The long walk that led to the grand entrance of the estate was tiled with crisscrossed X's of smoothed limestone rock, complete with the lining of a fertile green lawn that was bursting with the flowers of all different species. The rare sea flower, cresta, with its budding blue petals and silvery center, was even grown down by the estate's private dock. The limestone mansion was accommodated with huge arching windows, bordered with chocolate marble, and the balconies that wound all the way around the house, looking over the tropical blue vistas of the ocean. The house had a slowly sloping roof that was forked with three chimneys, each rising with white smoke, a sign that Finnick's mother was cooking for the feast after the reaping. Huge gaping archways built with sensory glass, opened at the very start of the beautiful shoreline. If one were to step out of the archways and onto the shoreline, a small glass pathway, built up from the crystal blue waters, would rise to meet them, allowing one to walk out to the small white-wooded gazebo that was built on top of the depths of the ocean below. Of course, the house's rooms themselves were adorned with luxurious furniture; Finnick's own room had a private balcony and king-sized bed. Most of the bedrooms, not just Finnick's, had private balconies and bathrooms.

On his balcony, now, Finnick looked out over the seemingly endless blue ocean below him. The stretch of the glass walkway only went about a quarter of a mile out into the waters, failing to exceed even to touch the immenseness of the ocean. His thoughts scattered and muddled together, and as with every reaping, his stomach was tying knots within itself. Finnick knew it was simply anxiety, and the chances of him being chosen for the Games were nearly impossible, what with the population of District 4 being nearly one million and counting. He thought of last year's Games when his friend, Tarn, had been reaped. He had made alliances with the other Careers; he had even considered the tributes from District 1 to be reliable. They almost made him forget that they were deadly and lethal weapons of war; until he ended up with a knife in the back by the very people he called his "friends."

"Loser, you got any extra briefs? Mine are all dirty." Stark's voice came in through the opened French doors that Finnick had so carelessly left open. He silently cursed himself as he turned to his brother with a good-natured smirk. This was a usual thing for Stark; with his lack of care for clean laundry, he was constantly asking Finnick for underwear, t-shirts, and pants.

"No, brother dearest, although, I do have a trident on hand that I would, personally, love to shove through your chest." His voice was casual and teasing, as if he had not just made a death threat to his own brother. Stark, finding no offense to this began to laugh himself into hysterics. His glittery green eyes were smiling as his brassy laugh that sounded almost like some sort of musical instrument, echoed around the large and high-arched ceiling.

"Oh, little brother, how you amuse me with your little antics. You really think you could take all of _this_?" Stark asked with a cocky raise of his eyebrow, gesturing to his extraordinary physique. He was beautiful, really. He was shorter than Finnick, but not by much and his body was covered with muscle. His facial features were all strong and angular, with his long golden curls and his bright green eyes. It was no question as to why he remained the "heartbreaker" to many of the girls at school.

"Well, considering I'm smarter, quicker, and stronger than you… Yes." Finnick answered with a winning grin, one that so often melted the hearts of all the young girls in the district.

"Well, then, pretty boy-" he cracked his neck with a rather annoying sound, "just _try _and kick my ass." He sauntered into Finnick's room, acting as if he owned the entire room. He picked up a knife that had been laying on his younger brother's table and threw it straight at Finnick's heart, but Stark had never been an ace at aim. The knife landed three inches short of Finnick's left arm, shoved mercilessly into the wall. This caused Finnick to double over in hysterical laughter.

"Well, Goldilocks, congratulations, you seemed to have ruthlessly murdered my wall." Finnick laughed harder and Stark's expression, which bared some semblance to that of an angry puffer fish, as he yanked the knife out with an annoyed tug.

"We'll see who's laughing when I snap your neck, little brother." Stark's eyes narrowed slightly, but it was hard for him to conceal the laughter that was bubbling up behind his eyes. Finnick grinned and stepped forward, getting Stark's head into a headlock position and then the two began wrestling on the floor. As they rolled around trying to squeeze the life out of the other, their legs kicked out into dressers causing a delicate vase full of fresh grown sea flowers to fall, breaking loudly against the dark marble floor.

Both of them laughed as their mother screamed from below to knock it off with whatever they were doing, but it didn't seem to stop them. "So help me God, Finnick, if you are not dressed in ten seconds, and ready to go I will gut you!" May screamed from below to her youngest, and this just caused another ripple of chuckles from the two boys. Stark, at this point, had Finnick pinned to the floor with both hands flat against the ground, as his knife protruded slightly into his neck. "What are you going to do now, little brother?" He purred almost like a little cat, but Finnick simply chuckled and quicker than any fish, he took his knee and jammed it into Stark's groin. His brother doubled over in pain, groaning. Finnick leaped up in victory and began doing a sort of odd victory dance and laughing.

"It's alright, Stark, maybe next time you'll be able to beat your _little brother_." His face wound itself into a sly and conniving look.

Just then, as soon as Finnick was about to get into the shower, the boys' mother appeared. Her blond hair was tossed wildly into a messy up do, and her angry blue eyes focused in on Finnick, who was still parading around without his shirt and his dirty shorts from fishing earlier. "Finnick Odair." Her voice was quiet, and then Finnick _knew _what was coming next: the storm.

It had occurred so many times he already knew what lay ahead. He could distinctively remember the first time it had happened, he had been four. It had been his Stark's eighth birthday party, and Finnick, was determined to ruin it for him. He snuck into his parents' bedroom, stealing Stark's new fishing trident, District 2 made and handcrafted for Stark's little hand. He had thrown the golden weapon into the ocean, hoping it would never be seen again. Finnick's ingenious plan had worked, his brother was heartbroken and his parents were furious. Hours later, Finnick was lying in bed, and May came in, asking of the trident's whereabouts. Finnick, only four, played the dumb little brother, even then being a prankster.

"I don't know where it is, Mama." Finnick had said while he smiled up at her innocently. His mother stared at him, and, finally, sighing in defeat, got up from the side of his bed, walking to the door. He remembered his next imbecilic move: "But, the ocean might know…" He grinned teasingly as he saw his mother's shoulders freeze up. She turned slowly, and mechanically, and speaking in a quiet tone, "Finnick Odair."

Suddenly, Finnick felt an unexpected dread. He didn't know she would be mad, it was only supposed to be a joke. "Y-Yes…?

"_What did you do with your brother's trident?!" _Her voice had been a screech of bloody murder, and every ounce of her anger was unleashed into it. Finnick had never tried to cross his mother again. Yet she seemed to _always _be screaming at him about something.

It didn't really surprise Finnick that day when she screamed in her bloodcurdling yelp: "_Where is your goddamn shirt?!_" Her tiny body managed to make that much noise without any effort, practically. She still managed to scare both of her sons to their wits with her powerful voice.

"Mom, calm down, I just-" May held up a hand as her eyes narrowed.

"Finnick, you have three minutes to take a shower, get dressed, and be downstairs. Do you think you can do that? Stark!" She finally noticed her oldest son was doubled over still groaning in pain from his hit that Finnick had delivered. She went over to Stark and grabbed him by the ear lobe, pulling him out of the room in his dirty underwear and all.

The city square of District 4 was more of a circle, than a square, the buildings that were cluttered near the decks formed a type of round shape around the cobble-stoned circle. The mayor's home resided over it all with the wide windows and the nosy-looking appearance as it jutted out into the street. Usually, on any ordinary day, the square was filled with life what with fishermen coming from the docks with buckets full of tuna, the markets noisy with commerce, and hustle and bustle of people. Yet today, the square stood still. It was as if life was frozen and silence had taken over in its place. It had been transformed into a division of children, girls on the right and boys to the left. The nervous anxiety had settled itself over everything. One could have dropped a feather and the noise would have been deafening.

Children feared the reaping day. If chosen it meant death to all, but one. District 4 was acknowledged as a Career district, but that only went so far. Usually 4 would be the first to be killed within the Careers' ranks, leaving only 2 and 1 to kill themselves off. There hadn't been a Victor from 4 since the 47th Games when Dink Pricings won nearly by chance. His last competitor in the Games that year had eliminated herself when she ate a batch of poisonous berries. It was all the more reason the children of 4 counted down the days until reaping with fear.

Although, there were the few who appeared to look forward to it. Those were the children who had spent the day since they could walk, with ruthless training. It was strenuous and excruciating. Finnick had known from experience, after his twelfth year of training, he had grown tired of it. It was broken into three stages: survival, combat, and strength. Survival was taught daily, and usually was the first stage of training, for most. Then came combat and strength to make one aware of everything, and push one's body to the ultimate test. It was no wonder many of the children of 4 were built like monstrosities. Finnick, himself, was bigger than any sixteen year old around. His physique, as his trainer had commented, was better than most of the other recruits.

Finnick stood in the roped off sector of the square, the one marked for males, of course. His thoughts were full of unprocessed streams of tangles. He couldn't seem to shake the odd premonition that was setting over him. What Sardine had said earlier was starting to get to him: _"They'd throw one of you back into the arena if they could play with ya', a bit, seein' as your old man was a Victor."_ What had felt like simply Sardine's imbecility was quickly beginning to feel like a dreading fear rising up in Finnick's stomach. There was no way they would throw another Odair into the arena. It wasn't possible. And yet… It was. He thought of the Games of past when Victors' children had been reaped and placed into the Games, only to lose. No two Victors had the same last name.

Just as Finnick was thinking of escaping to the ocean and drowning himself, before his name could be pulled, Vincent Barton, District 4's longtime Capitol escort stepped onto the stage. His rainbow colored hair was looking quite festive as he smiled brightly at the audience; his orange skin glimmered in the hot summer sun. He had been at this for as long as Finnick could remember, as his skin and hair colorfully changed with each new Hunger Games. One would think at his dramatic change each year, he would be forgotten. But in that _distinct_ Capitol accent of his, it was nearly impossible to forget Vincent.

"_Good afternoon_!" He sounded absolutely delighted to be standing in front of the crowds of children. "Happy Hunger Games, everyone! Well, as on every reaping day, we will begin with the mayor's speech, and then get along with the reaping. Smile, everyone, smile!" He gave a megawatt grin, before siding to the edge of the stage while Mayor Banks came to the microphone and began speaking into it. Holographic screens that circled the square broadcasted his face everywhere, and cameras focused in on his wrinkled and tanned face.

It was dull and uninteresting things about District 4's beginning, the Dark Days of the Rebellion, and finally, the start of the Treason Games, later becoming the Hunger Games. Finnick felt that same queasy feeling at the mention of it all. He figured after eleven years of schooling, twelve years of training, and nearly a life of fishing, he should be used to it all. But he never would. No matter how sickening it sounded to other citizens of 4, it was nearly heightened by ten to Finnick. He didn't understand why. His father had done nothing his whole life but praise the Games. It wasn't a form of entertainment to Finnick; it was children, innocent children hardened and molded into sick and twisted beings from the very start.

"The Treaty of the Treason began the very start of the Treason Games, marking the first annual Hunger Games…" Mayor Banks' smile was weak and everyone could tell it was forced. "And with that… I introduce Vincent Barton, our very own Capitol escort! Give him a hand!" He clapped loudly, and everyone slowly, as if in some sort of trance, began clapping robotically.

Vincent brightened at the introduction and bounced over to the microphone, grabbing it proudly with an expression that seemed to read: _No one else can hold this microphone the way _I _can. _He raised his chin haughtily and with a grin announced that he would start the reaping. He walked over to a golden tray on a table to his right, decorated with bright and colorful coral. Finnick even spotted a few rare crestas flowering around the base of a great glass boll. "Today, we will start with our beautiful ladies." Vincent's voice was sing-song, as if he couldn't imagine a more entertaining thing to be doing. His fingers closed around a small sheet of paper and he opened it slowly, one of his gum-stretching and wildly happy smiles expanding over his artificially puffy lips.

"Our lovely female tribute is, Analeigh Tempress!" He called over the crowds. Finnick's heart skipped a beat. Analeigh Tempress. _Oh no_. All heads turned to the center of the girls' sector where a tall, black-haired girl stepped out onto the cobblestoned pathway. She had a swagger in her determined walk as she smirked up into the cameras. No one had yet to make a sound, and Finnick knew exactly why. Everyone in District 4 knew who Analeigh Tempress was. Her cocky expression on her bright and lovely face said she feared nothing, but Finnick knew better, she had been reaped… The unthinkable had happened.

Analeigh sauntered up onto the marble platform, wearing her arrogant and sly expression, with a mischievous smirk in her blue eyes. She was wearing short and skin-tight leather shorts, and a translucent black lace shirt. Her small leather jacket barely pulled over her belly-button, which sported a small and silver piercing of a star. The way that she moved suggested she owned the entire district, but everyone in that square knew better. This was no prized child. Finnick had heard stories of almost legendary quality about this girl… She was not one to be reckoned with.

Analeigh stood straight with a smirk as she crossed her arms across her breasts, a massive section of cleavage showing as they allowed a slip of her golden skin through her black laced shirt. Vincent was as dumbstruck as the rest of the crowds. He coughed dryly, and managed to get himself back on track, flustered as he ran to the other side of the stage where the boy names were sitting in an identical glass boll.

"Well… Alright… For the boys…" He dug around in the massive pile of boy names. Finnick imagined his own name buried safely at the bottom, but a dreading fear was rising. It couldn't happen… It couldn't. Argus Odair had already won… What if it was one of his friends? Or worse yet, Stark. He couldn't imagine his own brother being reaped. It couldn't be any of them. There were roughly 100,000 names in that boll, and it wouldn't be his that was chosen. It couldn't be. No. It couldn't.

Vincent released a frustrated sigh as he dug around, finally finding a name of satisfactory. He had some trepidation, it seemed, because he couldn't very well pronounce it. "Uh… Well, our male tribute for District 4 is…" he bit his lip, saying it quietly to himself, before turning to the crowd, "Finnick Odair."


	3. Goodbye, Stark

_**Chapter III: Goodbye, Stark**_

It was like a ton of massive cinder blocks had been thrown into Finnick's chest, because for minutes he couldn't get his breath to circulate properly. His hands going instantly damp with nervous sweat, his eyes widened like a whale's caught in a harpoon, and his feet froze to the ground prohibiting him from even thinking of moving. This _had_ to be a nightmare. He was prone to those, especially days before the reaping. His mind would send him horrific images of his loved ones thrown into the arena, and him throwing the spear that would kill them… He had never experienced a nightmare like this. Not one so grotesquely clear and _real_…

Every head in the square had turned to look at him, a wall of eyes staring at Finnick. Some held sympathy in their eyes; others were distant friends who held anger that glowed within them. Were they jealous? Of course, they would be jealous of the dreamer. He tried to take a step forward, but tripped over his own feet, almost falling onto his friend, Notch. Notch quickly grabbed his arm and held him up, before he could fall. You could see the tears that were so bright in his friend's eyes. Why was his friend crying? _He _wasn't the one being reaped. His friend gave Finnick a slight and gentle push onto the open cobblestone path. Finnick now knew what it was like to be a fish in a fisherman's net, when one's impending doom rested just above the surface. His own rested on the top of the wooden platform before him.

Finnick began his slow and painstaking walk towards the platform, knowing every step would be one of his last. He tried to think of something unforgettable, like Analeigh had done, but he couldn't. He didn't have to. A strangled cry came from behind him. He turned his head slightly, his green eye only seeing a flash of movement as a woman ran out into the street.

"_NO! YOU WILL _NOT _TAKE MY BABY AWAY FROM ME! _NOOO!" The screech that had erupted from this woman, Finnick only knew too well. He knew this was no nightmare. May was dashing through puddles left from the rain of the night before, and her dress doused in murky splash marks. "_Finnick!_" She screamed at him, she was nearly touching distance from him, her fingertips reaching for his long tanned arm. Finnick realized he was reaching out to her as well, just as a thunderous noise erupted. It didn't take long for Finnick to realize what it was. _No. _He thought to himself. Finnick went to grab his mother's arm, he had meant to pull her behind him, perhaps, but he didn't get the chance to. His mother collapsed in a pile at his feet. Her body twitching and jerking uncontrollably, like some insect exposed to the sun under a magnifying glass.

"_Mom!_" His voice cried out as he ran to reach her, he saw the Peacekeeper who had shot her with the electric gun. He grabbed his throat and, with some incredible strength, threw him across the city square, where mayhem now ensued. People screamed and mothers grabbed children from their sectors. Peacekeepers rushed out into the square openly firing guns and electric pistols. If Finnick's mother hadn't been brought into this, maybe he would have stood quietly, but he didn't. He couldn't. May was his mother. This was the woman who had given him life. He scooped her up in his arms, holding her body that still shook with spasms; her blue eyes were wide open and full of shock…and pain.

Finnick turned and saw Stark stood alone, Galen had deserted him, perhaps to aid the Peacekeepers. Finnick didn't care, at this point. He ran to his brother, knowing if he could get May to him, he could leave in peace. Stark saw Finnick and began moving towards him, but then the unthinkable happened. A pistol went off, and Stark's face was frozen in permanent shock as he began the slowest descent to the earth, as his body defied gravity and fell in a slowed state. Finnick's eyes sparked shocked tears. "No…" He whispered as he ran to his brother, oblivious to the chaos that was going on around him. He lay May gently down on the sidewalk, dragging Stark into his arms. It was so surreal. This couldn't be happening.

"Stark…?" He shook his brother gently, but his brother didn't even blink. His green eyes stared lifelessly into the sky. The blue hue of the sky above was reflecting within those eyes like they were a mirror to another world… A world where he wasn't… No. He's not. He _can't_ be. Finnick was just fooling around with him hours before… He pulled his hand away from behind his head, his other hand reaching to support the back of Stark's skull. There was blood. His brother's blood was on his hands. Something deep inside of Finnick froze and it was replaced with an unmistakable anger.

A cry of vengeance was unleashed from Finnick as he ran to the Peacekeeper who had done the horrible act; he grabbed his throat and shoved him into a brick wall nearby. He began screaming things at him, and at each debasing word Finnick yelled, he would ram the Peacekeeper's head against the wall. He didn't even know what he was saying; all he knew was this man had caused him terrible, awful grief… Someone grabbed his shoulder, jerking him off the unconscious and bleeding Peacekeeper.

"Finnick! Listen to me!" It was a girl's voice, he turned furiously his eyes wild and blood splattered across his face. His eyes registered Analeigh's face looking up at him. "We have to go." She said quietly. "Now." Finnick knew deep within himself, she was right. And he hated it.

"T-They…. They killed…" He couldn't even finish the sentence as he fell to his knees, pressing his face into his hands. He wanted to disappear deep within the ocean's comforting arms, maybe if he was lucky he would drown.

"Kid, you have to get up, now. They'll kill you. They _don't_ care," Analeigh said with an urgent expression, one that bared no sympathy or anger. She sighed and grabbed Finnick's arm, dragging him up onto the stage where a shocked Vincent stood. He was sputtering and puffing, but Analeigh grabbed his arm, pulling him into the Justice Building. Once inside, she dropped Finnick's arm and turned to face him. "You can't be like this. Swallow it. Don't let them see you choke." She whispered to him, before turning and following a Peacekeeper who was standing there waiting for them. Finnick couldn't help but notice the wary glare that the Peacekeeper was looking at him with.

This couldn't be… It couldn't be reality. The series of events that had just occurred. They hadn't happened. Maybe he was dreaming. No. Finnick knew he wasn't. He turned his hands where Stark's blood still stained the skin. He furrowed his brow as an agonizing moan of anguish threatened to explode from deep within his chest. _Stark. May. _His family… They still remained the Justice Building doors, Finnick would never see them again. Stark wouldn't receive a proper burial. Finnick knew he wouldn't. In District 4, those who violated the laws and died in the process were simply thrown into the ocean. Not a second thought or prayer was given to them. Many times they would be cutthroats or criminals who had escaped from the small holding cells in the basement of the Justice Building. Stark wasn't a criminal. He was Finnick's brother… How could he be anything be more than that? How could he be…dead?

"Mr. Odair?" Vincent's shaky voice spoke into Finnick's dense thoughts. The young boy knew automatically, he could no longer weep. Analeigh's words coming back to him: _Don't let them see you choke._ There could be no more tears. He was a Career. A tribute. Finnick swallowed the lump in the back of his throat.

"Yes?" He asked, but a slight quaver in his voice threatened to tear apart his façade.

"Are you alright?" Vincent murmured, and finally, Finnick looked at him. He noticed that his orange makeup, done just for this occasion, was stained with wet tear marks. His startlingly bright grey eyes, the only thing that seemed natural about him, were filled with empathy. Finnick, despite feeling some sort of emotion well up inside of him, hated it. He hated Vincent for staring at him like he was weak.

"Yeah, I'm fine." His voice had gone gruff, but it was enough for Vincent. He seemed utterly reassured. He brightened and grabbed Finnick's arm leading him towards the backdoors of the Justice Building. He should have gotten to say good-bye. Obviously, that wasn't going to happen, he had just caused a massive uproar. The thought made his knees quiver, threatening to collapse.

There was a car sitting idly at the back of the Justice Building. If he hadn't been so distracted with his thoughts, Finnick would have taken more notice. Analeigh was already sitting in it; she had thrown her feet up onto the back of the driver's seat, and was looking at her nails intently. Finnick slid in beside her, she smelled like jasmine. He watched her with a disgusted scowl. She really wasn't kidding when she said not to show them emotion. Her face was full of sheer and utter lack of concern for anything. She acted as if the whole district hadn't just been in complete disarray.

As the driver began to move the car forward, Finnick realized something. The whole tragedy wasn't even over yet. He was going to the Capitol. He was going to enter the arena, where subsequently, he would meet his death. Good. At least it would only be two weeks of suffering with the thoughts of Stark's blank eyes on his mind, before he would meet his demise in the Games. He knew that they would haunt him every night until the Hunger Games. And then the real nightmare would begin.

The Hunger Games. The event where every second was televised. Where every tear, every kill, and every single thought one had was placed onto a pedestal and magnified by ten. Finnick knew that as a major milestone to the Games, they would show every reaping tonight in every home in Panem, and his own would have to be edited for long hours until it even began to look humane. It wasn't the first time reapings had caused terror to strike an entire district. He had remembered one where the reaped child had been killed in the process, and a new one quickly selected. It could've been him. They would have, if Analeigh hadn't stopped him from killing the Peacekeeper.

It hit him, then. He had almost killed two of them. The first he had thrown ten feet across the city square. He was so capable of killing them. How had that happened? Terror struck his stomach. No, they'd show it. They'd show it to all of Panem that he, Finnick Odair, looking almost like Argus sixty years before, was a vicious and a psychotic child, fully able to take on a Peacekeeper. The Capitol would dispose of him because every Career would target him, marking a little black X on the back of his head. He would be dead by the second day.

The train where the car had deposited them at was a beautiful piece of Capitol work. Its sleek form was painted bright red, almost like a cherry red water snake, common in the waters of District 4. It was covered in wide windows that allowed the sunlight to pour into the interior of the train. When they arrived, they were met by Margaret Clearwater, Dink Pricings, and Astrid Ronan, the three Victors that remained from the Games. They would be Finnick and Analeigh's mentors. Although, Dink and Astrid, could have honestly cared less for the two of them. Astrid gave Finnick a handshake, asking about Galen, finding nothing of true interest in the young boy. He was a middle-aged man, with graying gingery locks and fierce blue eyes. He had won his Games by smashing the brains out of his district partner's head with only a rock. Since then, he was always a Capitol favorite.

Finnick sat quietly in the background, while Analeigh was livelier and sauntered around the train cars. Her long, leather boots, which reached up to her knees, clicked nosily on the wood flooring of the train car. She was switching from flirting with Dink, who seemed to have been previously acquainted with her, and laughing frivolously at something Astrid would say. Finnick didn't understand how she did it.

Margaret was still sitting at the table from the lunch that had been served to them earlier, but none of them had seemed to feel like eating. She was quiet and older, in her late sixties, if Finnick could estimate properly. Her long brunette hair was speckled with grey hair, but she had allowed for it to go wild around her shoulders. Her kindly grandmotherly face looked up at him, and she smiled. It wasn't a fake smile that seemed to be what he was accustomed to, but a bona fide smile. It made him want to cry, he saw the sympathy, the compassion, and the desire to reach out to him. He looked away from her and wandered off down the long, windowed hallway towards the back of the train.

A small room waited at the end of the hallway, resembling the sunroom that was built into the roof of Finnick's home back in District 4. It was adorned with elegant, pure white leather couches encrusted with District 1 gold. The floor was pale with white wood that was polished to nearly perfection. The walls covered with gorgeous photos of the Capitol square. The windows opened onto a dark and green forest that allowed sunlight to break through its' dense green. A holographic screen flashed across one of the windows, showing recaps of past Hunger Games. Finnick sat down on one of the couches, laying his head back against the piece of furniture.

He wanted to wake up from this nightmare. His brother was dead. Stark was dead. The very thought sounded foreign and odd. It was clouded with a haze that seemed quite capable of tearing him apart. The scene kept replaying in his mind. The Peacekeeper's shot. His brother's shocked expression. The fall. The deafening _thump _as his brother's dead flesh hit the solid stone of the street. The blood. Finnick's hands shook in fists; Finnick hadn't even realized he had curled them into tight balls. His thoughts so bitter and twisted he had shoved his ragged fingernails into the skin, breaking through so that his palms bled. "Goodbye, Stark…" He spoke it silently to himself. There was no answer. There never would be.


	4. The Capitol

_**Chapter IV: The Capitol **_

It was a long journey to the Capitol. Finnick had only been there once when he was a child. His father, being a head advisor to fishery companies back in 4, had made several trips to the Capitol to speak with President Snow personally. When he was six, his father had taken the family with him, but all Finnick could remember were tall glass buildings, hovercars moving at faster speeds than rip currents, and an ocean that was so different than the one back home. He had had dinner with President Snow's family the night they had arrived, and the president would make a lasting impression on him forever. His beady eyes that were able to sense every weakness within Finnick, and his smile that looked like a snake.

Now, he was going to return to the city. He would train for two weeks, learning to kill in the best possible way. It was rather sickening to think about. That's really what training was, to plan the other tributes' demise. It was meant to help the child, but really, it just made them a better killer. A more fixed poster-child for the Hunger Games.

As the sky began to turn pink, and the stars came out to play their own games, the party in the Capitol was just beginning. The day of the reaping began a two-week long party in the Capitol. There would be elegant balls, gambling chambers open for twenty-four hours straight, and, of course, the mantra of the Games' feed. It propagated every waking moment of Panem's life. It spewed reruns of Ceaser Flickerman commenting on one particular tribute's outfit, or that District 2 boy's training score. It decided who the winner would be, how they would do it, and when-without the Games even beginning. To start off, there was the night of the reapings.

Vincent was insistent on the slew of them watching the reapings together. Finnick didn't want to watch. He had even denied several times, but Vincent said it would give him an opportunity to size up his competition. Finnick didn't want to do that, either. He didn't want to plan. He didn't want to think about the Games. He only wanted to mourn. And he couldn't even do that.

"Vincent, I just want to sleep." Finnick practically begged him. If Vincent would let Finnick out of this and go to his room, maybe, just maybe, he could let himself grieve.

"Oh, don't be silly! Here"-he handed him a lime colored drink in a tall and golden-rimmed champagne glass-"That will _definitely _wake you up, _gorgeous_." His last comment made Finnick cringe slightly. Now Vincent had resorted to calling him "gorgeous" in a deep and richly made Capitol accent. Fantastic. Despite the fact that his orange-skinned friend had a new name for Finnick every time he opened his mouth, the young boy still wasn't exactly sure about the drink Vincent had handed him. It smelled like a sharp shade of citrus, a fruit that was very common in District 4. Finnick decided it was best to just let it be. He set it down on the table near the leather couch, plopping down beside Analeigh.

Analeigh was reserved, now. No flirtatious laughter coming off of her tongue. She seemed, if Finnick was right, to have a cold expression on her face. She neither shrunk nor leaned to Finnick's movement next to her. Since she seemed so unaware of the young boy, he was finally able to study her. Her sleek black hair tied up in a tight and high ponytail with a silvery ribbon, Finnick vaguely wondering where she had gotten it. Analeigh's face, despite her haughty and sharp jaw, had features that were delicate and round as if she was a child. Her soft cheekbones, illuminated in the light of the holograph, did not appear high. Her nose was a bit small for her face, but her lips were full and beautifully peaked. None of her other features compared to her eyes, they were wide and round and almost symmetrically placed on her face. They were a deep-set brown and her pupil was circled with a double ring of gold. There were flecks of gold nestled deep within her iris. So, that was how she did it, Finnick realized. Her lips and eyes. That was how she got them.

"You enjoying the view, handsome?" Analeigh's voice, which was smooth and sultry, spoke up. She wasn't even looking at him, her gaze turned onto the holograph. _She must be used to men looking at her. _This was Finnick's next brilliant thought.

"Yeah, Ceaser Flickerman's green hair is total eye candy." Finnick said bitterly as he turned back to the holograph and crossed his arms over his chest. It was nearly time for the reapings to begin. A nervous clench gripped at Finnick's gut, as his fingers clawed at the white leather of the couch. This was it. All of Panem would see his brother's death.

Ceaser came on making a few jokes about his dinner the other night-"I swear my wife and I were eating live octopus!"-and then he hushes the audience of their laughter and begins the reapings with a touch of the remote. They get the ball rolling with District 1's glimmering and sparkling beautiful tributes, Analeigh remarks the girl's bra is stuffed. District 2 has two tributes both with deep-set eyes that seem to stare at the cameras defiantly as they raise their hands together, screaming in victory as they have already won the Games. There's something about the girl's eyes, Finnick notices, that seems almost visceral as if she could tear out your heart with her fist… Finally, District 4's reaping comes on with Analeigh's strut like a model onto the platform, and then, Finnick's name is called. The room gets quiet. Almost as if they know what is to happen next, and they do.

Just as Finnick predicted, there is his mother screaming as Finnick stumbles out onto the street. May is there grasping, reaching, running to her son. The bronze-haired boy is turning only slightly when the Peacekeeper steps out of the crowds and shoots his mother with the electric pistol. Finnick's facial expression, he never thought about, but placed on a screen to all of Panem, he can see his expression morphs from one of fear and worry to one of an unbreakable rage. His feet moving at a speed unthinkably possible, as his fingers twist around the Peacekeeper's throat. His teeth bared like some kind of chained beast as he throws the Peacekeeper across the square, his body flying out of view from the cameras. Finnick turns to his mother, where he scoops her up, and runs to Stark who is opening his own arms to his brother, as he runs to him. Right as the brothers are about to meet in the panic-stricken square, a Peacekeeper carrying a white gun appears in the corner of the screen, he aims and then shoots the weapon. The bullet does not even make an appearance, in a flash, Stark falls to the ground. His face smashes against the pavement of the street as his arms go spread-eagle. Editing has cut out the rest.

As if mocking Finnick, the screen remains frozen on Stark, the blood running out from the bloody hole in his blond curls. A wound that is barely sealed is mercilessly ripped open inside Finnick's heart. He feels his vision go blurry, as he feels every head in the room turn to him. _Their waiting for me to explode_. He would not give them the satisfaction of watching him weep like a child. He kept his eyes on the screen which was now showing the District 5 reaping as two broad-shouldered children got onto the stage, looking somewhat terrified.

Once the reapings were over and Vincent finally allowed Finnick to leave, the young boy stumbled into his room, barely hanging onto his tormenting emotions as he fell into bed. He waited for what seemed like hours until he heard the holographic screen go quiet, and the train car submerge in silence. He, then, let out a cry of grief as he allowed himself to cry into his pillow. His fists grasped onto the feathered thing and gripped it tightly between them. His chest screaming as holes were chopped out of his lungs from the agonizing thoughts that terrorized him. He thought of Stark, his older brother, the boy he had looked up to since he could remember. His jokes and attitude made him so charismatic with everyone, but he was gone now… Not a single trace to remind Finnick that he had existed. His muscles locked painfully as he fell into a sleep full of nightmarish dreams of Stark.

The rest of the journey on the train was quiet, no one really wishing to say much since the night of the reapings. Finnick spent his time in the small training car working on his aim, with various sorts of weapons knives, spears, and swords, (which didn't exactly end well for the training dummy). He found that the tridents on hand were old and vintage used items. This got to Finnick more than anything. Tridents were the counterpart to the net in fishing. Once a fish was jabbed with the trident, a fisherman could easily slip it into the net. And they weren't simply a form of commerce, but a sign of rank in 4. If a fisherman's trident was old and battered with age, like the ones in the training center, it usually referred to his impoverished home life. Likewise, a trident made in the Capitol with the contouring grip and self-reading lightness, it meant the owner was wealthy.

They weren't considered a weapon, but Finnick intended to make them one. He worked daily trying to master some sort of skill with them, of course he was great with them back home in the water, but using it as a weapon… Well, to put it shortly, no Victor had won by a trident's wound. He bitterly jabbed it into target centers, only being off the bulls-eye by centimeters.

Analeigh, on the other hand, spent her days flirting with Astrid and Dink and any other man who was around, loitering, and playing obnoxiously stupid. Her actions never reflected the intense and bright girl Finnick had met in the square days ago. Instead, she feigned the dumb approach, as if she wouldn't last till the end of the day in the arena. Finnick knew better. This was no simple-minded girl. She had a plan, and melting her mentors was just step one of whatever it was she had scheming.

It was not until Analeigh, giving Astrid a shoulder massage that she glanced out the window and leaped with joy. Her squeals making it known that the Capitol had appeared. It was a gleaming beacon full of tall and spiral buildings, sharp angles, and a beautiful shimmering green bay, where District 4 industrial boats were docked at the noisy and messy shipping area. Finnick could picture some of his own friends working on those boats, trying desperately to recover from the scare back in the district days before. Yet despite the sickness that was welling up inside of the young boy, he couldn't help but admire the skilled architecture of the city. The high glass skyscrapers that stretched and reached to the heavens, while patches of green marked city blocks where fertile parks burst with life.

"Damn. If I worked a corner in this city, I'd be rich." A soft and silky voice whispered in Finnick's ear, he turned quickly to realize Analeigh was behind him a hand pressed to his shoulder as her fingers trailed down his back. He shrugged her fingers off with a glare in her direction, but he couldn't help but let a slight amused smile reach his face as he saw what the black-haired girl was wearing. Her leather dress was extremely tight and clung to the curves of her breasts and hips, and her long leather boots seemed to be stained with crimson blood. She crossed her arms right beneath her bosom. She smiled innocently at him, working those dark brown eyes like she did with her "clients" as she called them.

"If you did any kind of business in this city, you'd be rich." Finnick said almost raggedly, not having spoken for at least a day.

"Not too late, then, right?" A small smirk weaving itself onto her face. "I mean… The Victor this year is going to be from District 4, so why the hell not?" Her smirk was sly and fox-like as it wove itself onto her features. Yeah, fat chance of that.

"Sure," Finnick's remark was bitterly laced as he turned back to the window. A crowd of Capitol citizens appearing to look more like a rainbow than actual people, surrounding the glass. They pressed their faces against the window, looking onto Finnick and Analeigh. Children pointed at Finnick and nodded excitedly at each other, while some people stood in quiet gossiping clumps exchanging words. He could hear their voices thought the glass. They were tainted with poison, driving themselves deep within Finnick's heart.

Analeigh blew kisses at the crowds, tossing her hair around on her shoulders as if she didn't have a single thought in her head. Her dark eyes twinkled like slowly burning fires, and the people reacted instantaneously screaming her name and pressing their faces harder up against the glass. She turned to Finnick, and for just a moment, she seemed to be sending him some sort of message. A sudden intensity alighting in her eyes, like a flame coming to life. _Don't let them see you choke._ Her words came to his mind.Finnick blinked and turned to the window where a couple of Capitol girls were eyeing him with admiration in their rainbow-colored eyes. _Now or never… _

Accepting his fate, Finnick grabbed Analeigh's hand, who didn't even seemed phased by the action, and grinned. He pretended to grasp their kisses and send them back with a smile on his face. He winked at several of the Capitol women as Stark would do back home. At least one fainted. This was the mask he would wear. The happy boy who couldn't believe his luck that he had been reaped for the Hunger Games.

"Finnick, Analeigh, it's time to go." Margaret said softly behind them. When Finnick turned he saw that Margaret had a motherly-like sympathy in her eyes. She knew, too. The bronze-haired boy released Analeigh's hand, who was still preoccupied with her fan club, and followed after his mentor. Once they had reached the doors of the train, the crowds descended on them as they fought to get to the hovercar. They reached for Finnick's shirt, his hair, and anything else they could grab. One girl even insisted on ripping a piece of Finnick's pant leg, while another dove for Analeigh's boot. Analeigh squashed he fingers, with a satisfied smirk and followed after Margaret and Finnick to the car.

The ride to the Tribute Tower was a rather short one. The hovercar advanced over the city, parks, and businesses like the skyscrapers were nothing but small flat-roofed houses. It looped with frightening accuracy around sharp curves and twisted angles, which caused Dink to turn from a shade of bright pink to a light green. He gripped the bars of the chair tightly, his knuckles were white-knuckling tightly around the iron of the seat brace. Finnick, feeling as if the twists of the hovercar were like that of the untamable currents of the sea, felt closer to home in the cab than anywhere else. If he closed his eyes, the sound of life in the gears and the heartbeat of the engine he could almost pretend to be on the industrial ships with his crew. Then he would open his eyes, and to his dismay he would see the shiny towers of the city.

Upon their arrival cameras flanked the landing plank and reporters swarmed Margaret, Dink, and Astrid asking questions about the uproar caused in the district earlier that week. Astrid gestured to a few of them with an obscene sign, and then turned back to Analeigh who took his arm and smiled prettily at the cameras. Finnick followed suit behind his mentors, but the bright air was disorienting and the strong winds of the distant bay were blowing against his chest. He took stock of his surroundings, noticing the building dropped down at least 100 feet below them. It had to have been one of the taller buildings of the city. If he squinted he could make out a large marble palace, the President's Mansion, which marked the boundary of the city. Beyond there were large and cavernous mountains that had been there for countless centuries, formed over the movement of Earth's surface… They had seen the rise and fall of more civilizations than Finnick could imagine. When would Panem fall?

"Finnick, come on!" Vincent, finally pushing away most of the attention of the reporters, grabbed his arm and pulled inside the elevator which shot downwards towards the Career tributes' suites. Originally, as Vincent was telling them in great depth, the order of the tributes' floors had been arranged numerically, but this year, they were trying out a whole new method. The wealthiest districts were placed at the lower levels, so District 2 would be Floor 1. Then came District 4, to Finnick's disappointment who had wanted a more panoramic view, and subsequently, District 1 followed. And, if none of them noticed, it was very exciting! That is, according to Vincent.

Their suite was large and lavishly decorated. Finnick realized the styling was done by District 4's classic limestone rock as the walls, the floor polished to perfection with 4's common ark palm, one of the few woods used and grown in his district. The walls showed news feeds, stats of every one of the tributes already reaped, and of course, the reigning victor of last year—Cashmere—in all her cold and sharp beauty. The young boy shuttered at the thought of how Cashmere had won her Games…

"Children! You'll have plenty of time to admire the furniture, but for now, it's time to eat." Vincent sang like some sort of rainbow canary. Finnick turned to see the table was done up with bursting sea flowers like crestas, sea pine, and blooming coral. The table was filled with ripe and beautiful foods like glazed-orange chicken which had an amazing succulent taste. A sea berry pie that contained the uncommon sea berries of District 4, only available to be harvested in late summer, and of course, a bittersweet salad made with strawberry dressing and bursting citrus fruit mixed with cran nuts. The meal made Finnick's mouth water, as he sat down and helped himself to a huge portion of the chicken.

Finnick had always been fed healthily, but when he turned to Analeigh her eyes filled with a longing hunger. And then it became crystal clear as to why Analeigh was so thin… Her joints almost knobs under skin, and her ribs, were no doubt visible under her curvy body. Her skinniness sent a stab of guilt into Finnick. He forgot of the starved and poor in District 4. He thought of Sardine's grandkids, some of them were so little and stunted in their growth. In an effort to provide some compensation, he usually always had given Sardine his catch of the day for free, it was the least he could do… And besides, watching those scrawny little kids with that certain emptiness in their eyes made him a little uneasy.

"Alright, children, the opening ceremony is tonight. After lunch, both of you will be headed to your prep teams to be prepared for your stylists," Vincent turned to Analeigh, looking her sharply in the eyes, "_and _I don't want to hear how you "suckerpunched" a man in his testicles. Are we clear?" Their orange-colored escort looked at them pointedly. His surprisingly bright grey eyes boring into Analeigh's golden brown ones, and her gaze reflecting back into his own was powerful. A sly smirk came across her features, resembling more of a cat than a girl.

"Sure thing, Captain." She insisted. After holding his gaze for a beat longer, she turned back to her food and ate the rest of her plate until there was nothing left.


End file.
